


Give and Take Chs. 1-4

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 12:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7977280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Every night I feel a little less as you slowly go away from me.” ©S.Nicks<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and Take Chs. 1-4

**Author's Note:**

> Time Frame: Season 4 (After Brian starts Kinnetik)  
> Originally posted on my LJ in 2008  
> 26 Chapters

                                                                                                  GIVE and TAKE 

                                                                                                          Ch.1

 _                                     “Pressure, pressing down on me. For people on the edge of the night, _ _ this is ourselves under pressure.”_ _ ©D.Bowie _

       Brian forced one foot in front of the other and trudged up the steps to the loft. He would have preferred to forgo the stairs, but work had seriously reduced his gym time and every bit of exercise helped. Depending on one's definition of the word, of course.  
  
      His favorite method of keeping fit also had been curtailed the past month and non-existent the past few days, a ludicrous situation unpleasant and uncomfortable. Even jacking off in the shower wasn’t scratching the itch. Only one thing would give him the release he so desired and needed. _All work and no play makes Brian a _very_ unhappy and horny camper._  
  
       But landing Dynamics for his agency could make the big boys in advertising sit up and take notice, and he had been working nonstop to lock the account. Ask his employees. They'd gladly confirm that he had taken his irascible, quick-tempered self to a level that redefined the meaning of slave driver.  
  
       Another negative side effect had him leaving in the morning before Justin dreamed of waking up and returning when he was either asleep or immersed in one of his art projects. Their communication was reduced to emails or phone messages. Even worse, he didn’t have an end date for the craziness. He didn’t know if it would be days or weeks before life went back to normal. The uncertainty festered his unease on the nights he arrived, fatigued and aggravated, to an empty loft.  
  
                                   _“It’s three in the morning._ _You’re nowhere in sight._ _And all that I wanted_ _was to be with you tonight.”_ _©C.Aker_  
  
       He never questioned. They were both free to do whatever and whomever they wanted. Hell, if he were Justin's age, he'd be fucking everything that breathed. He wouldn't be so committed to one dick. He wouldn't be with _him_. But the feelings that kept him awake until the metal door clanged open and a warm body slid into bed confused him and magnified a thorny issue about this thing they supposedly had—twelve years.  
  
       The Vermont fiasco had highlighted the difference. He was surprised that he had been looking forward to the trip, just the two of them. And Justin was like a kid waiting for Christmas. Only Christmas never came and Santa never showed. Whenever the memory surfaced, an unwelcome knot tightened in his gut, but he always reached the same conclusion. He didn't have a choice. Go to Chicago or lose his job. What was so difficult to understand? If you didn't look out for yourself, no one else would. He did what he had to do to survive.  
  
       When the emotional dust storm had settled, Liberty Avenue's resident shrink was tactful enough not to question their accidental meeting at Woody's and perceptive enough to give him a serious answer. “Justin couldn't see the big picture because he was self-absorbed with the trip. His inability to understand and accept your decision was partially due to the limited logic of adolescence.”  
  
       He tried to process Alex Wilder's words, but it was a race with the double shots of Beam necessary to have the discussion. “English, doc?”  
  
       He should have stuck with the psychobabble. Age. Again. With disturbing visions of a youthful, virile Justin Taylor pushing a white-haired, feeble Brian Kinney in a wheelchair, the bare bones explanation reinforced what he did his best to ignore. There would always be twelve year between them. But what if Justin had been older? Would he have reacted the same way? Some life lessons were only learned through maturity or taught by experience. He should know.  
  
                            
  
      “Thanks for another nail in my coffin, Alex.”  
  
      “Hey, you asked. I answered.”  
  
      “Just so we're clear. I didn't ask anything. I presented a hypothetical situation.”  
  
      “You're the ad man. Spin it to yourself however you want.”  
  
       Their conversation ended with a quickly inhaled bump and a dismissive wave at the not-so-subtle suggestion that professional advice on a semi-regular basis might not be such a bad idea for both of them. Maybe when hell froze over.  
  
       And thanks to the current demands of Kinnetik, history seemed to be repeating itself. Only this time Justin wasn’t hightailing his physical self to another state. His emotional self was leaving. The worrisome signals activated his internal Justin Emo Meter with startling speed and flummoxed his equilibrium. If he weren't so attuned to every inflection, so in sync with every nuance this time around, he never would have noticed the subtle signs—the monosyllabic answers peppered with sarcasm when asked about his day; the apparent indifference when or even if he came home; and most revealing, the gradual decrease of sunshine smiles.  
  
                                                    _“Wasn’t there a smile, one so remarkable that’s it’s still on file in my book of dreams?_  
_But why do I never find a clue to why that kissing smile withdrew.”       ©J.Webb_  
  
        As if he didn't have enough demons working overtime, old habits die hard and his were among the oldest and most tenacious. And they'd had enough. Time to show who was in control and who didn't give a fuck unless it _was_ a fuck.

                                                                                                        * * * *

                                                                                                         Ch.2

                                                                                         _Love is a hostage taker_

By the time Brian reached the top of the stairs, his thigh muscles burned. What next, a fucking cane or walker? With the first twinge of a headache stabbing his skull, all he wanted was peace and quiet, a hot shower, and a drink or two or three.  
  
        He dragged the door open and the blast of music swept through him like a tsunami. Fucking great! His for-shit day had gone from bad to worse. As the bass-heavy beat hammered his head, he clenched his jaw so tight he thought his teeth would fall out. The ear-piercing shrieks from the speaker phone and equally shrill comments in the loft set his nerves on edge even more. Justin only reverted to a teenaged female was with Daphne. Together they sounded like a gaggle of geese.  
  
        It saddened him that it had been a while since he heard such relaxed laughter from Justin. It also angered him. And he didn't know why. But whatever the reason, the annoyance switch in his brain crackled and popped. He tightened his grip on his briefcase handle and slammed the  metal door, taking perverse pleasure when Justin bolted from the sofa. Christ, he was more fucked up than he gave himself credit for.           

       “Daph? Hold on a sec.” Justin hurriedly turned off the music. “Another bad day? Did you get the account?”  
  
        He bristled at the hesitant concern, at its cautious attempt to diffuse his inner time bomb and ignored the shadow that crossed Justin's face. “Would I look like this if I did?”        

        Verbal wrecking balls clawed their way up his throat, eager to demolish the house that Kinney built. But they didn't make it out. Blindsided by a surge of desire, he grabbed his shirt and jerked him close. His tongue teased like a relentless marauder and at the first sign of surrender, went in for the kill.  
  
        Breathless, he pulled away with an epiphany that rivaled the second coming of anything or everything. Contrary to popular opinion, he was more at Justin's mercy, more in his power than the other way around. What he wouldn't give to crawl inside him and see himself through his eyes. Or maybe not. He wouldn't like the vision.  
  
**You carefully built your wall one brick at a time so nothing could ever hurt you again. But on one random night, one random person wanders into your meaningless and restless existence. You allow him a peek inside. He didn’t ask for it. You just do it. Then he does something dumb, like kiss you or smile at you in a certain way and your life isn’t your own anymore. You’re lost. But you finally matter.**  
  
       Unsettled and off his game, he called into the phone, “Hi, Daphne! How’s my favorite girl doing?” But he stayed zeroed in on Justin, on his confused arousal so candidly displayed. He was an open book, the polar opposite of himself. They were the yin and yang of fucked-up arrangements.

He remembered from high school physics that opposite magnetic poles attract and come in pairs. They're remain permanent unless something eliminates the alignment of the atomic magnets that hold them together—or until one person decides the effort isn't worth the reward. But not everyone was cut out to be a Stepford wife or be monogamous. Not everyone was a lollipops and roses guy. And maybe not everyone was meant to be happy.

                                                                           

       “Brian?” The screech bounced off the walls and floors.  
  
       “The one and only, my dear.”   
  
       “Oh! Well, okay. I’m gonna go, Justin. I know you two have to say hello in your own special way.”   
  
       “Very funny, Daph!”  
  
        On his way to the bedroom, his ears perked up as their conversation continued.  
  
       “Hey, I get it, Justin. Listen, before I hang up, did you come to a decision about making plans? I mean—"  
  
        The rest of her sentence hung in the air like a suspended guillotine. The speakerphone had been turned off. _Why the secrets, Sunshine?_ Not that it mattered. Why the fuck would he be curious? Anyway, a more urgent matter needed his attention.  
  
         Hoping to provide incentive for a perfectly shaped ass, he took off his clothes in full view of the living room. He undid the buttons on his cuffs, then slowly opened the buttons on the front of his shirt and let it slide off his shoulders. Making quick work of his shoes and socks, he hooked his thumbs in his waistband and in one fluid motion, eased his pants down. He kicked them to the side. _Hell, the suit had to go to the cleaners._  
  
         In the past, Justin would have been a textbook example of classical conditioning—tripping and stripping in his rush to join him. Now, he wasn't sure. He stretched out on the bed, lazily stroking his cock, and called, “Don’t let me interrupt your girl talk, Sunshine.”  
  
        “Daph? I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow. Um, something’s come up.”

                                                                                                    * * * *

                                                                                           Ch.3 (Justin's POV)

                                                                                          _Love is a battlefield_   _  
_

**“The key elements in the art of working together are how to deal with conflict.”** _©M.DePree_  
  
         Life with Brian isn't easy. Christ, talk about an understatement. It’s more like a constant tug of war, ambiguous skirmishes of the soul that inevitably turn into hurtful battles of words that occasionally escalate into perilous wars of will. They scare the shit out of me because I know what’s at stake, what I stand to lose. Each of us has been the hurtee or the hurter at one time or another, but when I look at our time together, it doesn’t matter who did what, when, or why. What matters is we’ve survived. I think. I hope.  
  
         Our relationship has always been muddled. The passion and sex boils on the surface, but the emotional undercurrent that binds us is murky. Everyone thinks they know, but they really don't, you know? How could they? We don't understand it most of the time. Fuck, we should have our own special section in the American Medical Association’s library.  
  
         I’ve been trying to figure out when everything started to fall apart. Lately, too many reasons or excuses have been interfering, getting in the way of _us_ —friends or family, his work or my art. And I want my alone time with him. I need it to validate my place in his life, to feel like I matter, and that I’m not here simply for convenience. Okay, that came out a little harsh. At this stage of whatever the fuck we have, I'm pretty sure it's not only for the sex, amazing as it is. I do mean something to him. I just don’t know what or how much. And I'm at a point where I need more.  But do I have the strength or the will to try and get more? Am I that much of a masochistic pussy to keep putting myself through this?  
                           
         Thanks to Kinney the Conqueror’s quest to snag Dynamics for his little fiefdom in the advertising kingdom, we haven't spent any time together this week. In the past month, the number was in the single digits. Why can’t he get it through his fucking head that even if he doesn’t get the stupid account, the sun will still come out tomorrow, raindrops will still fall on my fucking head, autumn leaves will still fucking drift, and there’ll still be hazy, shitty shades of winter. Christ!  
  
         The situation was obviously out of control when Cynthia called _me_ to talk some sense into him, implying that I had influence. I would have laughed if I hadn’t already tried with disastrous results during a rare dinner together of gourmet Thai take-out. I had broached the subject in such a ridiculously circuitous way even I was embarrassed. I’m surprised _he_ didn’t laugh. I started with a safe topic, an innocuous remark about how cold the winter was. Go figure. I was reduced to talking about the weather. Via six degrees of separation, I told him he looked like shit. He did.  
  
         I went on to say that he had very competent employees and maybe he should delegate more. Why go out of your way to hire the best people if you’re not going to trust them to do the job? I suggested giving Cynthia extra responsibility, pointing out that she had a good rapport with his staff and they were very productive when she gave directions. And it was only a fucking account, for Christ sake! Not worth dropping dead over. Yeah, I got a little emotional and probably wasn't as tactful as I could have been or as subtle as I should have been, but he's so damn frustrating. He hears but he doesn’t listen.  
  
         When I finished, there was no smirk, no raised brow, no nothing. He paused with his fork suspended halfway to his mouth, a piece of Kung Pao Chicken dangling from the end. Not a good sign. The deliberate way he lowered his arm and placed the fork on his plate was so controlled, he looked like he was moving in slow motion. An even worse sign. Still waters run deeper than all the oceans on earth with him. He doesn't react like most people. An extrovert he's not, but the more quiet and methodical he becomes, the more volatile the shit storm and the damage.  
  
         Disturbingly calm, he folded his napkin into precise quarters. He finished his drink in one long swallow, leaned back in his chair and toyed with the glass. Despite the powder keg situation, I was hypnotized by his index finger circling the rim. Sue me. Sex has never been the problem with us. It's everything else.  
  
         I fidgeted in my seat and I waited. And waited. And—the sea parted and Moses Kinney spoke. He reminded me in a pained voice that _he_ was the one who paid Cynthia’s salary. She didn’t pay his. She worked for _him._ _He_ didn’t work for her. Kinnetik was _his_ agency, not hers. It was _his_ responsibility to make Kinnetik the “best fucking ad agency” and _his_ employees would benefit from that success. For the record, note the emphatic use of he, him, and his. Issues much, Brian _?_  
  
         I couldn’t let what he said go by without a comment. All right, a few comments. I swiped my napkin across my mouth and threw it on the table. We're different. He gets prissy. I get messy. I hadn’t envisioned the evening turning out the way it did, but leave it to him. Time for the 'everything else.'  
  
        “Let me ask you something, Brian. Exactly where does your so-called responsibility begin and end? According to Michael's recollection of a Kinneyism, you said your responsibility was only to yourself, that you didn't owe anyone a goddam thing. Does that only refer to your personal relationships, only to me? Because in my humble opinion, and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, there's a distinct contradiction between your self-professed personal principles and your professional ones.” I crossed my arms in front of me. Subconscious protection, maybe? We’d played this verbal game of Dodge Ball so many times, what would happen if I said fuck it and left?

            _“So perhaps I should leave here, yeah, go far away, Even though there’s nowhere I’d rather be than with you here today.”_ _©Curry,Leeway,Bailey_  
  
         True to form, he responded with his usual biting wit. “How charming you and Mikey have shared these details with each other. To think I was worried whether or not the two of you would kiss and make up after your last argument.”  
  
         It was all I could do not to throw every bit of food at him. Shame he wasn't wearing his favorite Armani suit. I could have been the next Jackson Pollock. “Stop being such a shit and answer me.”  
  
         He barely reacted, but the muscle in his jaw, the one that signals a cataclysmic event, worked like a bulldozer.  
  
        “Fucking answer me!” I was losing the battle with myself and losing the war with him. But I couldn't stop.  
  
         He sprang to his feet, knocking his chair over with a crash, and grabbed me by the shoulders. His fingers dug into my flesh like needles. I tried to pull away but he held on tighter.  
  
         I once read a book where the character had blazing eyes. Unless you’ve seen Brian angry, you don’t have a clue what the phrase means. His eyes narrow and the pupils widen. Their inky shade of black makes the gold flecks more noticeable. They look like flames fueled by his anger. It would be fascinating if it weren’t so intimidating.  
  
        “What would you like me to do, Justin?” His tone lowered the temperature in the room to a frozen tundra and goosebumps broke out on my skin. "Close down Kinnetik, put the staff out of work, put _me_ out of work?”  
  
         He let me go but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of rubbing my arms.  
  
        “I know exactly what you want,” he taunted. “You want Kinnetik to run itself, be successful by itself, make money by itself, so you and I can isolate ourselves from the big, bad world, have wild and passionate sex and most, important, profess our undying love for each other.” He sneered as if the idea amused him. "And anything we wanted or needed would magically appear, and we could live happily ever after in our lofty castle in your fairytale. That's what you really want, isn't it, Sunshine? That's what you've always wanted.”  
  
         My eyes burned and my mouth was pasty and dry. The light in the loft became too bright, the air too thick. I blinked. I swallowed. I breathed. Anything not to fall apart, anything to keep my sanity and a shred of dignity. With the thunder in my head at raucous decibels, the room tilted, righted itself, and tilted again. I choked back the rising bile and whispered, “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Kinney, but I don't believe in fairytales anymore.”  
  
         I couldn't be sure, but something flickered before he shut down. This latest round was over and there was no winner.  
  
        He gave his parting shot as he grabbed his jacket. “Do yourself a favor. Take off the rose-colored glasses. See the world as it really is and people as they really are, not the way you want them to be. Sometimes _grown-ups_ have to work crazy hours or go on business trips to Chicago. Not because they want to. Because they have to.” He slammed the door so hard I thought it would fall off its hinges.  
  
         I made it to the bathroom just in time. Hunched over the toilet, I came to a decision. I had to regain what I had lost in order to reclaim me and maybe salvage a little of us as well.  
                    
**The best way to make your dreams come true is to wake up.** _©P. Valery_

_* * * *_

Ch.4  (The Warren Alpert Chronicles P.1)

                                                                            **Sometimes you have to know when to ask for help**

   With increasing frequency, Dr. Warren Alpert's trip to his office had become more of an obstacle course than a leisurely stroll. Weaving among rush-hour pedestrians, he didn't know which was worse, walking or driving.  
  
         His cell phone vibrated as he stood on the corner. Although tempted to let it go to voice mail, his conscience wouldn't allow it. He checked the display and flipped it open as he crossed the street, dodging morning traffic like a football receiver. “What is it now?”  
  
        “Is that any way to greet your first line of defense?”  
  
         He grinned at his assistant's infectious laughter. “You’re the only one who can put a smile on my face on a Monday morning.”  
  
        “Then my job as your irreplaceable, indispensable second-in-command is done. You can mail the monthly checks to my villa in the south of France. Much appreciated, by the way.”  
  
         He enjoyed the banter. But she was right. Laura Beth Imperioli was more than a second-in-command who ran his office with humor and efficiency. She was a friend.  
  
        “Tell you what. When my insurance premiums don’t require a bank loan, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”  
  
        “I’ll let you off easy and take a rain check on being a kept woman if you take me to lunch.”  
  
        “You’re on. What’s up?”  
  
        “Well, I had kind of an SOS from Alex Wilder before I left last night.”  
  
        “Alex?”  
  
        “Yep. You okay?”  
  
        “Yeah, fine. Just a tickle." He cleared his throat. "Is he closing down his satellite clinics at Woody’s and Babylon?”  
  
        “Very funny! You’d be the first to admit that his unorthodox meeting places have helped the community. There are a lot of people who need to talk and for one reason or another, won’t or can’t see a, forgive the term, shrink,  I think it’s great way to give back to the community.”  
  
        “Yeah, I agree. He’s definitely giving and getting. He’s perfected bartering.”  
  
        “Don't give up your day job and become a comedian,” she retorted.  
  
        “Maybe _you_ should be a patient, Laura. You and I could figure out your fascination with gay men.” He appreciated that he never had to censor his words with her. She could take it, and she could also dish it out.  
  
        “I wouldn’t be able to afford your fees.”  
  
        “You could do what Alex does—barter _._ ”  
  
        “Sorry, Warren, last time I checked I was still female.”  
  
        “No doubt about that, my dear.” He picked up his pace. With wall-to-wall sessions, he would barely have time for lunch. “So what did the silver-haired fox want?”  
  
        “Well,” she hesitated, “even though he didn't say it, I had the impression this was a personal favor. I know you're not a fan of intermediary appointments, but he’d like you to see an acquaintance of his because he wouldn’t touch this one with a ten foot pole. His words by the way, not mine. And um, he’d really appreciate it if you could do it ASAP.”  
  
         Great, as if he didn't have enough business.  
  
        “Your 11:00 a.m. cancelled, so I took the liberty of filling it for you,” she said in self-satisfied tone.  
  
        “Thanks for nothing. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am not to have a lone hour to myself. It makes me feel so needed.”  
  
        “You are needed, Warren, very much so, by all of your patients.”  
  
         It was too early in the day to be serious, but her comment reminded him why he entered the mental health field. To help people. “Whatever. You can stop angling for that raise now. Listen, I’m going to stop for coffee. Do you want any?”  
  
        “Oh, yes, please! A double mocha latte with extra chocolate would be divine!”  
  
        “The low fat one?”  
  
        “I’ll diet tomorrow.” She sounded unconvinced.  
  
        “Yeah, right! How many years have I heard that?”  
  
        “Never mind, mister! Shake that booty of yours and bring me my morning fix.”  
  
        “Laura, I think the community is rubbing off on you.” He laughed as he opened the door to Starbucks.  
  
        “Shut up!”  
  
        “The line's pretty long. Hold the fort.”  
  
        “Will do.”  
  
        “I'll be there as soon as I can.” He closed the phone. Who was this latest patient, courtesy of Alex's Search and Rescue Service?                                 

                                                                                                   * * * *

          **Continue to Chs.5-7 here:**   **<http://archiveofourown.org/works/8102758>**

                                                                           


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